"It's so,—ask Marsh; we found him to be an all-right crook; then's when we quit him," he said, nodding and smiling grimly.
There was something in his manner which warned her that his real meaning was intentionally obscured. She remembered that Marsh had once boasted of having proof that she was in North's rooms the afternoon of the murder and it flashed across her mind that if any one really knew of her presence there it was Gilmore himself. She studied him furtively, and she observed that his black waxed mustache shaded a pair of lips that wore a mirthless smile, and what had at first been no more than an undefined suspicion grew into a certainty. Gilmore shifted uneasily in his chair. He felt that since their last meeting he had lost ground with her.
"What's the matter,—why do you keep me at arm's length; what have I done, anyhow?" he asked impatiently.
"Do I keep you at arm's length? Well, perhaps you need to be kept there," she said.
"You should know what brings me here,—why it is I can't keep away—"
"How should I know, unless you tell me?" she said softly.
Gilmore bent toward her, his eyes lustrous with suppressed feeling.
"Isn't that another of your little jokes, Evelyn? Do you really want me to tell you?"
"I am dying with curiosity!"
Voice and manner seemed to encourage, and the gambler felt his heart leap within him.